


Per Manum Flashback #2

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [156]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, IVF, Infertility, MSR, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-04 06:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf
Summary: Before and after "Never give up on a miracle."





	

She goes to the transfer appointment alone, telling him she appreciates his support but that this is something she needs to do by herself. He’s waiting at her apartment afterward though, with dinner on the stove and a cheesy sci-fi movie on the counter. They eat spaghetti in front of the TV, and when she falls asleep on the couch, he gently wakes her and gets her tucked in bed. In the morning, she sees that he cleaned up the kitchen before he left.

They both have months of unused leave saved up, so she takes the next week off work. He calls her periodically from the office, somehow intuiting when she needs distraction, and he makes her laugh with his claims that he’s getting _so_ much done without her there.

She’s back at work the next week, and he does an admirable job of pretending nothing is different. He shows his panic face only once, when a case comes across his desk that will undoubtedly require a lengthy trek into the woods. Asking her to sit this one out will disrupt the carefully constructed facade of normalcy they are both trying to maintain, but even she has to agree it's not a great idea for her to be out in the field if she's trying to give the IVF every possible chance for success. She rescues him by saying she's already booked reservations to take her mom out of town for the weekend, and could he maybe handle this one on his own.

The relief on his face only slightly counteracts her guilt over the fact that now this means he's going out alone without backup. What good is she to him as a partner if she can't physically have his back? She reminds herself that if the pregnancy does take, she should be able to get back to a regular workload soon after.

(It's just as well she didn't come along, he tells her after they're both back on Monday; the supposed cryptid sighting just turned out to be a bear with a really bad case of mange.)

***

She leaves for her appointment after work on Monday. He doesn't ask if she wants him to come along, and she doesn't ask if he'll wait at her apartment instead.

He changes his clothes and runs to her place from the office, trying to exorcise his nervous energy with the long uphill slog on Wisconsin Ave. He'll come back for his car and suit later.

He showers quickly, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt and sweater he left here for just such an occasion, and sits down on her couch to wait. He spends the next hour thinking she should be back any minute, but as the light starts to fade outside, so too do his hopes that she will be coming through that door with a smile on her face.

_Maybe she just went to Maggie's first, to tell her the good news._ He doesn't really believe that, though.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep.

***

_“Never give up on a miracle.”_

He shoves his disappointment down deep; whatever he’s feeling, his only job right now is support. He won’t add to her devastation by admitting how much he’d started to want this, too.

She sniffles against his chest, and he strokes her back in what he hopes are reassuring circles. He kisses the top of her head and holds her as the sniffles turn to sobs. Nearly two months of cautious hope was dashed in an instant this afternoon, and it pours out of her. No matter how hard she tried to prepare herself -- no matter how hard they both did -- of course it still hurts, and his heart breaks a little for her as she cries herself out.

When she finally pulls back from him, puffy-eyed and red-faced, she excuses herself to go use the restroom, and he goes to the kitchen to put her kettle on for tea. The front of his sweater is damp; he pulls it over his head and hangs it over a chair, letting his hands linger for just a moment to grip the chair back. He’s helpless to take away her pain, though if there were anything he could do, he would of course do it in a heartbeat.

He’s just pouring hot water into a mug by the time she comes back, dressed in flannel pajamas with her face scrubbed clean. He sets the kettle down and picks up two boxes of tea from the counter.

“So, are you feeling camomile or peppermint?”

The smile in her eyes doesn’t make it all the way down to her mouth, but it’s a start. “Peppermint, please.”

“Coming right up.”

She pulls a chair out and sits at the table, tucking her feet up on the seat. He sets the steaming mug in front of her and sits down. She’s still all sort of pulled in on herself, and he watches her for a minute, then sets his hand palm-up on the table, offering. She brings her hand to rest on it, curling her fingers lightly around his. 

“Is it okay if I don’t really want to talk about it?” Her voice sounds so small, and his heart breaks for her all over again.

“Of course it’s okay.” He strokes her palm with one fingertip, unsure if silence is any better. He knows all too well that not being ready to talk about something doesn’t mean your brain will shut up and play along.

Still, he’ll follow her lead for the time being. If she wants to sit quietly and doesn’t seem to be suffering for it, he is absolutely fine with that. Whatever she needs.

She releases his hand to pick up her mug, blowing gently across the top before taking a careful sip. She closes her eyes, breathing in the steam and letting her breath out in a long sigh.

“We should follow up on that missing persons case in Charlotte tomorrow.”

Her comment seems completely out of left field, until he recognizes what she’s doing. This morning she’d scoffed and told him it was obvious the pair of 19 year-olds had run off together, that there was absolutely nothing suggesting alien involvement. He’d even more or less agreed with her, this time; both kids’ parents had been pretty vocal in their disapproval of the relationship, and it didn’t take a genius to see the “abduction” was almost certainly staged. However, unless they find something new to investigate tomorrow, it’s the only thing currently pending.

And Dana Scully doesn’t do idleness in the face of tragedy very well.

“We, uh, we can do that, sure.” Realizing that doesn’t sound especially convincing, he fumbles a bit for something to add, resorting (as ever) to deadpan humor. “It’s been a few weeks since we had a road trip. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to play you my new ‘Musicians Who Might Secretly Be Aliens’ mix CD. Moby features heavily. As does Bowie.”

Her crinkly-eyed smile might have been a laugh under other circumstances, but he’ll take it.

***

He's been lingering, not wanting to leave her, but it's nearing midnight, and he can see she's fighting to stay awake. 

“It’s getting late. I should let you get some rest.”

He moves to stand, but she reaches out quickly to touch his arm. “Mulder, could you… would you stay with me tonight? Please?” When she looks up at him, there’s a fear in her eyes he hasn’t seen since the encounter with Donnie Pfaster. “I’m not ready to be alone.”

He nods, swallowing hard around the sudden lump in his throat. That Scully loves him deeply, he has no doubt, but she is so fiercely independent that it’s not often he feels like she _needs_ him. At least, not like he needs her. He takes both her hands in his and stands, pulling her to her feet and into his arms.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, and she nods against his chest.

_We’re going to be okay_ , he wants to tell her. Maybe they’ll find another way to become parents someday, and maybe they won’t. But no matter what, they will have each other. That much hasn’t changed.

***

He’s wrapped around her in the darkness, his protective warmth against her back as she tries desperately to quiet her mind enough to fall asleep. Every time she feels herself start to spin out of control again, his arm tightens around her, and he presses a kiss to her shoulder. She doesn’t know if he’s responding to a change in her breathing or tension in her body or what, but he seems to know exactly when she needs pulling back from the edge, each and every time.

After the fifth time, though, she rolls over to face him, needing more. Her brain apparently has no intention of settling down on its own. She presses forward to kiss him, and the aching tenderness with which he kisses her back nearly brings tears to her eyes. He’s been so careful all night not to suffocate her with pity, to simply be there, for and with her, which she recognized and appreciated. And there’s no pity in this moment either, but there is such a sense of love, unconditional and boundless, and it seems to be spilling out of him as if he’s been trying to keep it in check as well, to keep it from overwhelming her. Maybe himself, too.

She lets herself get lost in the slide of his mouth against hers, in the way his thumb strokes her cheek and traces her earlobe. She lets her day, and her disappointment, fade into the background, eclipsed by this moment, this mutual declaration of adoration. She kisses him knowing that if they did this for an hour, he wouldn’t ask more of her, that his only aim is to give whatever comfort she needs, without expecting any escalation.  

Eventually, she is the one who wants more. She is the one who brings his hand to her chest and hers between his legs. When she asks for more, he gives without taking, showing without words exactly what he feels for her, exactly what she is worth to him. He brings her to the heights of pleasure again and again, with his fingers, with his mouth, and finally gasping out his own release against her shoulder, her legs wrapped tight around his hips.

When she falls asleep a short while later, her head pillowed on his chest and the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear, her mind is calm and quiet.


End file.
